The Mean Reds Affair
by Uncle Charlie
Summary: Illya has a bad case of the Mean Reds (reference Breakfast at Tiffany's), but he has no idea what caused them. A birthday prompt for Ducky's Lady.


It came out of nowhere, this feeling of dread. Illya was busily typing up a report, his mind engaged in recounting the events as near as was possible without having Waverly call for their resignations. Suddenly an overwhelming sense of fear clutched his gut so tightly that he gasped and sat back. At first he thought it was his appendix or else shaken loose after all these years. He methodically took the feeling apart and realized it was firmly lodged in his head. Illya Kuryakin was afraid.

He didn't know quite what to do with the feeling. Certainly he had been in life-threatening situations before this, but there was always a direct cause – usually THRUSH. Yet he was sitting in his well lit office in the belly of UNCLE HQ – New York and he was afraid, bone chilling and gut wrenching afraid.

Illya reached for his phone and dialed a number.

"Security. Dunderson here."

"Mr. Dunderson, this is Kuryakin. Have there been any breaches in security?"

"None that I see, sir. Shall I do a full sweep?"

"Yes, thank you. I will wait." Illya glanced down at his report, thinking it might be a link. Rather it was a rather dry blow-by-blow account of their rendezvous with an Innocent and her less-than –enthusiastic boyfriend. Illya smiled as he remembered the glares the young man had directed towards Napoleon as his partner swept the young woman off her feet. Napoleon couldn't help it, though. With his velvet tones and bedroom eyes, the women who could resist Solo's spell were few and far between or dead.

_Dead. _The thought made Illya gasp. Closing his eyes, he concentrated, searching for that elusive bit of something that always told him of his partner's well being. He was so intent upon it that it took him several seconds to register the voice in his ear.

"I'm sorry?"

"I said that we finished a search of the perimeter of the building and there are no signs of trouble. Do you want me to widen the field?"

"No, that is fine. Thank you, Mr. Dunderson."

_There's nothing wrong, so why am I so afraid?_ The last time he'd felt this anxious, it had been caused by a fear-inducing gas. Illya glanced up at the air duct and grabbed a chair. Stale recycled air blew into his face as he unscrewed the front panel and yanked it free. The duct was clear. Feeling a bit of a fool, along with everything else, Illya replaced it and returned to his desk.

He took a deep breath and glanced at the clock. Napoleon should have checking in thirty minutes ago. Illya dialed reception.

"Agent's entrance."

"Miss Scoville, has Napoleon checked in yet?"

"He did call a few minutes ago to say he had run into some trouble and was running late."

"Did he sound concerned?"

"No, sir. He sounded annoyed."

"Would you let him know I'm looking for him when he arrives?"

"Certainly, Mr. Kuryakin, I will be happy to."

"Thank you."

Illya took a deep breath and tried to cleanse himself of his anxiety, but that only made it worse. He tried to return to his report, but his thoughts were muddied and anxious. Three typos later, he surrendered and paced the length of his office.

"This is insane," he muttered. "Napoleon is a perfectly capable agent."

"I'm glad you think so. You were looking for me?"

The sound of Napoleon's voice made Illya spin and he sighed, feeling slightly giddy. "Finally! Where were you?"

"Uh, I had an accident with a cup of coffee this morning and needed to change. What's wrong?"

"Wrong? Nothing." The blood was pounding in Illya's ears and he felt slightly light headed.

"Illya, the last time I saw you look that happy to see me, I owed you a hundred bucks. What's going on?"

"What… It… it is nothing, Napoleon. I just… feel very idiotic at the moment."

"I could assign a dozen descriptors to you, Illya, but never that one. Sit down before you fall down." Napoleon grabbed Illya's arm and pushed him towards a chair. "You look as if you are about to pass out."

"I will admit to feeling… I don't know how I feel, to be quite honest." Illya sat and shut his eyes, then rubbed them. Little bursts of light exploded as he did.

"Talk to me, partner."

"I was working and suddenly I had an overwhelming sense of being afraid. I had security run a sweep and there was nothing. When you didn't appear at the usual hour, I thought something might have befallen you. I don't know why I was afraid, I was just terrified… of apparently nothing. "

"Hmm, sounds like you are working on a case of the Mean Reds." Napoleon poured a glass of water and handed it to the Russian.

"Come again?" He drained the cup and winced at a sharp stab of pain behind his eyes.

"Well, you've heard of the Blues. I do believe they feature highly in that music you favor."

"Yes."

"The Mean Reds was a term coined in a movie called, _Breakfast at Tiffany's._ It means to be afraid, but to not know exactly what is causing the fear." Napoleon took the empty glass from Illya and tipped Illya's head back. "You know, I think you should give Medical a call. You don't look good."

"I'm fine now." Illya stood and that was the last thing he remembered until he woke up in Medical.

The room was dark and very quiet. For a moment, Illya felt a surge of panic rush through him until he turned his head and saw Napoleon sitting there.

"Ah, Sleeping Beauty wakes. Don't move too much. How do you feel?"

"My head hurts and I feel a little queasy. What happened?"

"You keeled over in our office. Apparently, that little case of Mean Reds worked you into a migraine."

"I don't get migraines."

"You do now."

The doctor entered and nodded. "I thought I heard voices. Did Mr. Solo explain what happened?"

"He did, but he failed miserably at telling me why."

"We really don't know what triggers migraines."

"He was experiencing unexplained anxiety over something."

"Hmm, are you anxious now?"

"No."

"If it happens again, I would just chalk it up to the Mean Reds." The doctor smiled and placed a small white cup on the bedside table. "Take these and stay put for the remainder of the day. You need to give yourself a chance to rest."

"What did I tell you?" Napoleon murmured as the doctor left. He winked and gave Illya nudge. "Mean Reds will get you every time."

"Am I the only one to not know of this phenomenon?"

"Well, you aren't exactly the movie going sort."

"Who has the time? And I certainly have no desire any additional excitement in my life."

"But Audrey Hepburn is so…" Napoleon smiled at the thought. "Stunning in the role."

"Ah, there's a woman involved. Did you date her?" Illya sat up in bed and let his legs drop over the edge.

"I wish. Where are you going?"

"To finish my report. It isn't going to type itself."

"That's okay. I'll dictate the rest and have our secretary type it up. You heard the doctor. I want you to rest."

"Don't Mother Hen me, Napoleon. I'm fine - really." The sudden explosion of pain in Illya's made him stomach heave and he gasped.

"Then you will be twice as fine tomorrow." Napoleon pushed Illya backwards onto the pillow. "Take your medicine and relax." He didn't move until he watched Illya swallow the pills. "I'll drop in on you later to see how you are doing."

Napoleon walked back into their office and headed straight for the typewriter. He needed to see where Illya had gotten before he started dictating.

Pulling the sheet from the machine, he carried it to the desk and sat to read. A quick scan made him frown and he slowed, reading and re-reading each word. He reached for the phone and dialed a number.

"Psych, this is Dr. Freling."

"Doc, this is Napoleon." He pushed the paper away from him, paper which contained the same three words - _Napoleon is dead _- again and again. "I think we have a problem."


End file.
